


on losing a war of attrition

by Meskeet, Tenebrielle



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Crack, Emotions, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Food, Friendship, Gambling, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, McCoy is allergic to Santa hats, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:07:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2835755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meskeet/pseuds/Meskeet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenebrielle/pseuds/Tenebrielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Christmas approaching, it soon became apparent to all aboard the Enterprise that Leonard McCoy would much rather deck others in the hall than spread the holiday cheer. Alternatively, twelve drabbles in which the Enterprise, and by extension, the sickbay prepare for a Christmas in space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	on losing a war of attrition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpontaneousMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpontaneousMe/gifts).



> This fic started with a conversation between Tenebrielle and I that went something like this:  
> Me: but what do I WRITE?  
> Tenebrielle: well, what about the 12 days of sickbay? you can talk about McCoy being a grouch and Kirk spreading Christmas cheer.
> 
> And then this happened. Tenebrielle pitched in via talking me off the ledge and writing a few little blurbs of her own.

It was easy to lose track of time when one lived inside a pressurized metal can in deep space.  There was no natural day/night cycle to regulate the body’s Circadian rhythms, nor passing of the seasons when life support kept the ship at a comfortable 22.5 degrees Celsius year-round.  Starfleet regulation ensured that the passage of days was marked by three duty shifts per 24 hour period, but between the constant temperature and the challenge of running Sickbay, the months tended to run together.

McCoy spotted the first of the annual furry plague in the mess hall.  He sighed and collected his lunch onto a tray to take back to his office.  Like clockwork over the next few weeks, the furry abominations would proliferate almost exponentially among both the officers and the crew, assaulting his eyes with vibrant red and his nostrils with fibers from cheap, synthetic fur.

The Santa Hats had arrived.  The Christmas season had officially begun.

* * *

“It was two weeks before Christmas, and all through the shuttle… not a lifeform was stirring, not even a-”

“I think he’s awake,” Bones said dryly, his voice coming from somewhere to Jim’s right. Jim didn’t bother opening his eyes, well-acquainted with the ridiculously bright levels of McCoy’s sickbay. He’d just… take a moment. A moment to wake up fully, that is. Not to prepare himself for little pinpricks of pain turning the dull throb of his head into a five-alarm migraine. “You got the book wrong, dumbass.”

“Your medical degree tell you that? Damn, Bones. I had a good thing going there,” Jim croaked, “But I’ll forgive you if you give me a glass of water.”

“Unfortunately, until we resolve our current predicament-“

“I’ll tell you now, I don’t want to hear about Klingons or alien invasions or Chekov accidentally setting the botany labs on fire or –“

“Look what you did,” McCoy said sourly. “Jim, can you open your eyes?”

“I can,” Jim said. His eyes stayed closed, and he smirked at McCoy’s frustrated huff.  He counted the seconds, and then opened his eyes right before Bones reached his breaking point. To his surprise, the lights above his head were not doing their usual mini-sun impression. “Did you finally get enough complaints about the lights, Bones?”

“What?”

The ceiling was still the same “we poured disinfectant over this for days” shade of just off-white, to Jim’s everlasting disappointment. He glared critically up at the light bulbs winking back at him.

“The lights, Bones. They –“

For once, it was Spock who picked up on the nature of his complaint before Bones. “I believe Captain Kirk is expressing his displeasure with the usual level of the sickbay lights.”

Bones made a grunt, and Jim turned his head to stare at his sour face. The whole place was dark, darker than Jim expected.

“You have a concussion, dimwit. I turned the brightness down, but if you’re complaining I’d be happy to return them to normal levels. Do you remember what happened?” There was the ruthless interrogation he had been anticipating.  

“Sure, of course,” Jim said promptly, sitting up and wincing as his head spun. _Ouch. Bad idea._ Then he paused and met McCoy’s expectant gaze. Damn. He hated to prove the smug bastard right – Jim couldn’t remember a thing. Jim decided to go with the most plausible lie that came to mind, “I fell?”

McCoy raised an eyebrow and Jim realized how flat his own tone had been.

“Are you asking or telling me?”

“Are you my seventh grade math teacher now?”

McCoy huffed, and if Jim was lucky, that remark would head off the lecture. McCoy wouldn’t want to prove him _right_ after all.

“So, care to explain what you were thinking?” McCoy asked in a suspiciously level voice. “Or do you just want to admit that you have no idea what happened and let me give you a recap?”

Jim glowered, crossed his arms, and looked away. Spock met his eyes, a trace of amusement in his own gaze. It didn’t comfort Jim any to know that the Vulcan was taking amusement at his own expense, but it probably served Jim right for trying to resist the doctor in the heart of his little kingdom. Sometimes Jim had a feeling that although he was the Captain of the Enterprise, the sickbay operated on its own rules.

Okay, admittedly he got that feeling every single time he ended up in here.

“Recap,” Jim grumbled. He wasn’t going to say please, no matter the level of glare that Bones was currently levelling at him. Oh man. That was a degree of annoyance that Jim hadn’t seen in a while. “Please.”

“You drank some of Ensign Randall’s hot chocolate and decided it was in the ship’s best interests to hang ivy in an attempt to appear festive. Once you were on the top of the ladder, you proceeded to have an allergic reaction because-”

“-of the mint,” Jim remembered at last. “Oh, right. I remember that now. Still, you have you admit that the ivy looked pretty sweet.”

McCoy groaned aloud, and Jim realized that he may have gone a little too far with that last comment. “You,” he said to Spock, who affected an expression of sudden… Jim wanted to say utter terror, but it was _Spock_ so had to go with _mild perturbment_. “-are going to be in charge of him. If he has another allergic reaction, another concussion, or decides that he needs to – god forbid – spread more Christmas cheer, it will be on your head.”

Jim opened his mouth to protest, because _Christmas, Bones!_ but winced as the motion tugged at a scrape on his face. Subtlety would be key, he decided. He could do subtle.

* * *

It was to no one’s great surprise that a veritable black market popped up every year as the holidays approached. While many of the crew weren’t even human, it was deemed generally acceptable for each species to partake in the sharing of gifts and such, when there was no port stops for the stretch leading up to the holidays, a frantic search for small gifts began. After the first such Christmas, it became a matter of pride for many - either it proved one had a skilled poker face or excellent planning skills.

Truthfully, Leonard wouldn’t be able to put a finger on when exactly the scramble went from quiet murmurs to full-fledged chaos. All he knew was that one day he walked into the mess hall and found Ensign Sidorov and Yeoman Tamura hunched over a table with a deck of cards between them.

“I call,” Tamura said, gnawing at her lip. As he walked by, Leonard took a glance at her cards and winced at the triumphant light in Sidorov’s eyes.

They laid their cards out on the table, and Leonard felt one side of his mouth curl into the grin at Sidorov’s vehement cursing. To Leonard’s surprise, there was a furtive shuffling under the table - later, he’d learned that hand-spun glass baubles had passed between Sidorov and Tamura.

It was just the start of the mess. To any officer who knew how to look for it, small exchanges were being made - some legitimate, such as when Sulu paid Marcus for a set of classic films. Others were not so much - gambling became a frequent pastime, and certain items began to frequently change hands (Leonard found himself keeping track of curiously in demand, outdated set of medical journals that he later found out had been signed by once-revered surgeons in the field. For a while, it seemed as though the journals were in a new nurse’s hands every time he saw them) in the days leading up to the holidays.

At first, Leonard tried to keep the gambling out of sight and out of mind. As both a ranking officer and the CMO aboard the Enterprise, it technically fell to him to ensure that order was maintained. However, after catching a particularly fierce tournament over a well-aged scotch, he found himself slipping Sulu - who had proved fairly skilled compared to most of the bridge - a few credits in exchange for a drink if he won.

Later, he’d find the fiercely contested set of medical journals wrapped nicely and placed on his desk, with a simple thank-you from Carol Marcus for nearly losing his hands to the disabled torpedo.

* * *

 

“Doctor McCoy?” the call was enough to make him snap out of his half slumber and be halfway out of his office door before he remembered to kick off his slippers. Some genius in Engineering had decided to lower the ship’s temperature to _reflect the season_ , nevermind the Starfleet members from the southern hemisphere or even the ones from more temperate climates.

“Lieutenant Uhura?” he asked, more out of surprise than anything else. She was one of the few members of the bridge staff actually intelligent enough to not to need to come into the medbay any more than necessary.

“Unless I am mistaken, I believe it’s the medbay who accepts form IHA-216D. Is that true, sir?”

Oh god. Not that form. They’d only had to fill it out a handful of times, and generally only as a last resort. It was one of those worst-case scenario forms that until their five year mission, had really only existed because the soul-sucking pit of vipers that was Starfleet bureaucracy decreed it into existence. After all, Starfleet members weren’t supposed to just go insane. They weren’t supposed to be declared a danger to the remainder of the crew, to be decreed too dangerous to be left aboard.

“Why aren’t the klaxons screaming at us?” he asked suspiciously. They should be in lockdown if things were as dire as the form made them seem.

“It’s a… delicate situation,” she responded slowly. “It seemed best to let you handle it personally, Doctor. I was worried something like this would happen so I managed to get a hold of the files he’d been working on recently.”

His hackles raised despite his best attempts to stay relaxed, and gingerly he reached out. She slowly extended the datapad to him to sign off on. Despite himself, he glanced automatically at the name and let out a curse.

“What’s he done this time?” he asked.

Uhura looked at him and said two words, “Secret santa.”

Staring at her with horror, McCoy pulled up the carefully filled out report. He shoved the datapad back into Uhura’s hands and nodded.

“This is going to take some work,” he said seriously. Uhura nodded in reply, the same horror reflected in her eyes.

Later, an ensign would tell one of his fellows of Lt. Uhura and Dr. McCoy dashing down the corridors as though a horde of Klingons were at their heels. Now, however, Leonard was already phrasing the best way to explain to Kirk that assigning a notoriously difficult empath to Spock was a terrible, terrible idea that would probably end with the Enterprise in flames.

* * *

Although much of the season was lighthearted, the end of a standard year meant they needed to clean up reports for their next databurst to Starfleet. As such, that meant each final draft of missions and medical reports needed to be proofread one last time before finally being signed off on. Although many of the reports from the last quarter were light - small bumps, the odd broken bone, even mild concussions here and there - others were not.

They’d only had a handful of deaths this year - nothing compared to the Khan incident - but other injuries, such as the odd amputation, the occasional failed recovery, and freak accidents necessitated medical discharges. Although one Yeoman joked he was glad he would be returning to Earth by New Year’s, each incident left the Enterprise with one fewer crewmember.

It was days like this where Leonard wished alcohol was more accessible in space. Still, the lighthearted attitude of some of the discharged crew kept his own spirits up in turn and for some of the men and women genuinely anticipating meeting family and friends at home, it didn’t seem like a terrible burden to bear.

* * *

At some point, McCoy had ended up as the damn counsellor for the homesick crew members (why he got the job, when they had an actual honest to god shrink aboard with them for that very purpose, he had no idea).

“Doctor?” the title made him glance up from his latest stack of paperwork that some hapless ensign had delivered just that morning. Leonard grumbled, sucking on a papercut and cursing the fact that the med bay was required to have paper records in case of complete shipwide failure – something that would likely kill everyone on the ship, rendering the whole process _stupid_ and _pointless_ yet still required by the bureaucracy.

His annoyed glare didn’t soften by the time he glanced up and met a familiar face. It took a moment for Leonard to realize why Chekov looked intimidated, and by then the damage was nearly done.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, waving a hand at the sole chair not covered in the mounds of paperwork that he was beginning to believe Kirk had deliberately sent his way as a distraction.

“If you are busy, I can come back later?” the words came out as a question that made Leonard suspect that there wouldn’t be a return visit.

“Just paperwork,” Leonard replied, dropping the clipboard back to the desk. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

Chekov prowled anxiously into the room, sitting on the edge of the chair and appearing as though he’d spring up at the slightest provocation. “Ah,” he began, the syllable a placeholder for what seemed to be a weight of words to say. Leonard seized the opportunity to truly focus on him, leaning back in his chair and examining him with a surgeon’s eye. Physically, Chekov seemed just fine – no rashes, no strange marks or bruises, no discolored skin. Just a little tired, that was all. So Leonard looked at him as less of a patient and more of a friend. Stressed, he decided. It made him look like his… eighteen? Nineteen? years.  Did Leonard ever find out his birthday? While he waited for Chekov’s answer, he casually opened up the kid’s medical records on his datapad, feeling like shit as he did so.

God, sometimes he forgot how young Chekov actually was when he spent most of his time being so competent. He really shouldn’t have been able to do so, not with the kid spending half the time tripping over his own feet like an anxious puppy.

“I guess,” he glanced down at his hands briefly, as though he was looking for answers he didn’t really want to find. “With the keptin trying to make the Enterprise seem so… festive, it makes me miss Russia.”

That wasn’t… exactly what McCoy had been expecting. Damn it, none of his degrees were in psychology and they had a shrink for this. He almost told Chekov as much, but stopped himself. The kid had come to him, not the psych department, and probably had a good reason for it.

“I miss our Christmas pies,” Leonard admitted, standing to cross the room to his supply cabinet. His hands went through the familiar motions automatically, even as he kept talking. Luckily, what he had in mind wouldn’t take long. “We made a fantastic pecan every year, and I haven’t since my divorce.”

“I miss sledding,” Chekov replied, his eyes lighting up in reply. “We used to climb the largest hills we could find and race down them. It does not seem like Christmas without the snow.”

Leonard had never had that problem – while it certainly wasn’t unheard of for it to snow in Georgia, it was always viewed with more annoyance than glee. Still, twenty-three degrees was also warmer than he was used to for the holiday season. He picked up the now-prepared mugs and ambled back to his desk, setting one on top of the pile of papers closest to Chekov. The Russian took the hot chocolate with some surprise, sipping it by reflex and not even wincing as the hot milk probably scalded his tongue.

“The Captain wanted me to wait until tonight to distribute these,” Leonard continued, pulling out a CD with Cyrillic scrawled across it. “We were going to package it with his outlandish secret santa assignments, but you’re welcome to stay in here if you like.”

Chekov’s eyes lit up, but he shook his head. “Thank you sir, but I will wait until tonight like the rest of the crew.”

“Well then,” Leonard said, not questioning the decision. “Tell me about Russia.”

Chekov smiled, and he did.

Later that week, when the seventh knock came to his door, Leonard had already shoved a pile of paperwork to the side. He glanced up, already familiar with this routine, and turned his open expression into a scowl at the sight of his latest harasser.

“I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out where all the hot chocolate was coming from,” Jim said, shaking his head as he sprawled across the chair, propping his feet up on a stack of signed forms. “I laughed at the first ensign who told me where it came from, you know. I thought he was going to cry, but he made a run for it when I had to wipe my eyes.”

“They came to me for medical advice,” Leonard lied quickly. “Probably too ashamed to admit to it.”

“Your own nurses turned traitor on you and spilled,” Jim shook his head sadly. “Grumpy old Bones has a heart after all. I would have never guessed.”

“Oh, get out of here,” McCoy snapped, unable to disguise the note of fondness in his voice. “And take these damned forms with you.”

Jim smirked, mouthing something that looked suspiciously like _softie_. “It’s okay to admit that you really love the crew,” he called, scampering out of the way of a stethoscope flung at his heels. “Tis the season, Bones!”

* * *

Holidays on a starship were always an exercise in compromise.  Duty rosters were juggled and re-juggled to accommodate the more religious crewmembers, parties were had, and the menus for the mess were prepared weeks in advance to try to ensure everyone got a festive meal.   Even with these efforts, it was a difficult time of year for morale.  Homesickness set in with a vengeance, especially with the younger crew.

But the older crew knew this, and they cared for their own.  Months before Christmas, a roaring trade in rations and allocations was already going as everyone tried to get at least enough for a taste of home.   Even in deep space, far from resupply, McCoy could not escape the debates in the corridors over the best way to replicate rellenong manokwith Starfleet issue protein packs and improvised spices, or which ensign made the best kolyadki.  Scotty lamented (though not very sincerely) when strips of metal intended for bulkhead repair were repurposed into cookie cutters, and McCoy lost count of how many vaguely irritated memos from Spock were sent out re: theft of root vegetables from the hydroponics bay.

Somehow, they all made it work.  It was a time for sharing, and share they did.  McCoy found it heartwarming to watch the way the crew shared their holiday traditions with each other.   Peace on Earth, and goodwill towards all, et cetera, et cetera.  He smiled as his fork broke through the crust of the pie and brown sugar and butter melted on his tongue.

Yes, goodwill for all.  But mostly for Lt. Crandall, who had left the piece of homemade pecan pie on his desk.

* * *

Gently, Leonard set the last of his stack of boxes onto the shuttle floor, grimacing as the movement jostled the contents. He’d already taped it up as best as possible, carefully wrapping the breakables in hopes that they would survive the journey back to Earth, and from Earth, to each individual’s respective home planet. They had done all they could to ensure the safe return of the items, one last rite of respect for the crewmembers to whom each box belonged.

“Is that all, Doctor McCoy?” Spock asked solemnly, setting down his own box. Leonard wasn’t exactly sure when Spock had turned up for this – for that matter, he hadn’t even noticed when Scotty, Sulu and Chekov had joined them either. It had started with just him and Jim, and Uhura had joined them when she’d caught Jim with a question in the hallway. At some point, it had turned from Jim, Uhura, and Leonard staggering down the hallway with boxes in hand into the last remaining original members of the core command lending a hand.  

“It should be,” he grimaced, running through the last several hours. “The research from some of the outposts we’ve visited were in the first round, and we’ve been checking off names as we’ve gone. Uhura?”

She hummed shortly in lieu of an answer, glancing down at her datapad and skimming her eyes down its surface. Chekov, at her elbow, ran his eyes down the list as well, double-checking her always-pristine work. “That’s all,” she confirmed, Chekov nodding in agreement behind her.

“That’s that, then. We’ll leave the shuttle at the next outpost we reach” Jim sat down next to a box, letting out a low sigh and sounding just as tired as the rest of them. “They’ll be able to ship it back to Starfleet from there. What about the decommissioned and discharged crewmembers, Bones?”

“There’s enough room for all of them and their belongings as well. The only one that may be a problem is Holster. He’s in stable condition after the amputation, but moving him will need to be done carefully.”

There was silence after that statement. Jim took in the carefully, meticulously labelled boxes of belongings as though he was silently counting each and every one of them, while Scotty ran his fingers over a name McCoy knew belonged to a friend. Sulu, as somber as any of them, appeared to be doing an impromptu inspection of the shuttle as though he didn’t trust it to carry the precious cargo to the end.

“Poor souls,” Scotty broke the quiet as he muttered at last.

Jim glanced down at that, and McCoy knew they were each grimacing. Chekov winced, Uhura clenched the datapad so fiercely it seemed to creak, Spock did his best statue impression, and Sulu set down a flight checklist with an audible thump. It had been a tough year for the Enterprise – not just because of Khan, but also because of the sheer amount of danger exploring the universe posed to them. Jim and each of them had done their best, yes…

Still, any fallen crewmember was one coffin, one urn, one burial too many.

“Anyone else in for a drink?” McCoy asked the room at large, and had a feeling that no one, except perhaps Spock, would turn down the offer. He wasn’t sure that he could stand to be in this room full of dead man’s possessions any longer.

They all murmured agreement, even Spock, who did not resist as Uhura threaded her fingers through his. McCoy clenched his jaw and knew that if he stayed any longer he would begin to count the boxes. He led the way out, the rest of the command following him.

They would close the night drunk enough to relax but sober enough to still function. At some point, Spock was convinced to pull out his lute, and Uhura perched on the edge of his chair, singing her own lament for their crew.

* * *

Jim couldn’t help but to smirk as McCoy stalked onto the bridge, with an expression that made him look as though any sort of Christmas cheer would send him from _mildly annoyed_ to _completely homicidal_ in a heartbeat.

“Ah, there you are,” Jim said, as though it was a complete surprise that McCoy had appeared on the bridge. The crewmember closest to Jim began to edge away, as though he was afraid of being caught in the impending firefight – not that Jim could blame him, really, because that dark glower was one Jim hadn’t seen in… four whole days.

Crap. It was The Look. Behind him, there was a slight noise of Spock shifting uncomfortably. It was nice to know that The Look was capable of instilling fear into the hearts of Vulcans as well as mere humans.

Hurricane McCoy swept closer, going from category four to category eight in a matter of steps. It was an interesting ripple effect that went through the room as crewmembers noticed his presence – Uhura faltered midtranslation, Spock began to retreat towards the exit, Chekov went as still as a deer in headlights, and at least three lower-ranked members suddenly found pressing matters to do on their computers when they had been gossiping just seconds before.

“ _What did you do to my sickbay?”_ the words weren’t shouted, which made them all the more terrifying. Jim abruptly became aware of the fact that he was on a starship with little avenue of escape and he had a mandatory physical scheduled two days after New Year’s.

“I decorated,” Jim, perhaps a trifle too loudly, said. He could just sense Uhura rolling her eyes.

“With _celery_.”

“You make it sound like such a bad thing, Bones. It’s not like we have actual Christmas trees in space - that would be ridiculous.”

“You put a large piece of celery on my desk, covered it with tinsel, and glued paper snowflakes to it and you think a Christmas tree in space is the ridiculous idea?”

Put that way, Jim had to admit it sounded a bit odd. “It was an especially large piece of celery?” he tried. “It’s Christmas time! You could use a little Christmas spirit!”

“I hadn’t noticed the date,” McCoy’s eyes narrowed and it was a miracle he wasn’t breathing fire. “Keep your Christmas spirit out of my medbay unless it’s been properly decontaminated.”

To Jim’s relief, McCoy turned and grumped his way out of the bridge. In front of him, Chekov gave a low mumble of Russian that made it impossible to tell if the sigh of relief that came from behind Jim originated from Spock.

“Captain, I believe it would be ill-advised to further attempt to decorate the medbay,” Spock muttered behind him.

Jim rubbed his neck, evaluating the damage left by Hurricane McCoy. He was pretty sure at least two chairs were empty that hadn’t been empty before, and one ensign was eyeing a small menorah as though McCoy would be after Hanukkah next. Another looked ready to tear down the makeshift wreath Sulu had hung near the display port as though the very sight of it would cause the doctor to start foaming.

“It could be worse,” Jim decided at last, probably to the horror of everyone in earshot. “We just need to decontaminate everything first.”

“That didn’t seem to be Doctor McCoy’s intention,” Spock seemed to feel obliged to point out.

Jim grinned. “Spock, sometimes it’s all about the letter of the law.”

* * *

Even in the midst of the holiday nonsense, life went on.

Away parties came and went, redshirts still required medical care, engineers still preached imminent doom at each odd spark from the ship - even if the crew wanted to spend time celebrating, the rest of the universe wasn’t prepared to stop and relax.

Still, Leonard couldn’t help but to take a little time to relax himself. It had been a hard year, even excluding the Khan incident.

 _Including the Khan incident_ … It was a miracle any of them had made it to celebrate the season. With Jim’s coma, Spock’s volcano adventures, Scotty almost leaving the Enterprise entirely… it was a miracle as much of the crew had made it through the other end. Some, like Pike, had certainly not.

With all that they’d been through, it made it a little harder to begrudge Jim his nonsense. Well, most of his nonsense anyway.

* * *

Leonard sat at his desk, glaring at the piece of celery encased in a plastic box. On the box, Jim had scrawled a hasty order that the item was within health regulations and therefore, he had every right to order it to remain in McCoy’s ‘depressingly normal’ office.

 _It would be a shame if the celery caught on fire,_ he mused sourly. _I could claim that we ran out of candles._

He shook his head with a sigh, picking up a datapad and signing off on an inventory chart. One of his nurses had made a note that they were low on Masiform D, as well as some of the other common drugs used in the Sickbay. Apparently, Starfleet underestimated the amount of utter disaster the Enterprise would be facing in their travels – or, at least, they had underestimated the sheer amount of trouble Kirk could manage to stick his nose into in such a short amount of time.

He hummed quietly to himself, scrawling his signature on the bottom of the datapad and clicking his way to the next document.

“Nice tunes, Bones.”

“Jim,” McCoy sighed, looking up to meet Jim in the doorway. His friend didn’t move any further into the room, likely prepared to make a dash for it if Leonard proved hostile. He appeared to be hiding something behind his back, further inspection proved. “What are you talking about?”

“The humming - I didn’t know that you knew _Santa Baby_.”

The datapad dropped to the desk with an audible thump. “This is _your_ fault,” he accused, starting to stand.

Jim froze. “I brought you bourbon?” he said, holding out the bottle as though it would successfully fend off Leonard and win his way back into his good graces.

Leonard scowled as a response. “I’m on duty.”

Jim’s eyes flickered to his desk as if he didn’t quite believe it, and naturally fell upon the celery. “Hey! You kept my Christmas tree!”

“OUT!”

* * *

The acrid tang of blood and burning plastic still hung in the air, though life support had since cleared the smoke.  The emergency lighting flickered tenuously as Leonard McCoy opened the door to his office and dropped heavily into his chair.

The birds-of-prey had caught them with their pants down, attacking from the sensor shadow of some planet in the midst of the Enterprise’s Christmas party.  McCoy didn’t remember which.  He didn’t bother much with the details, not with the ship bucking and shaking like a dying animal and wounded crewmen flooding into his sickbay.

The _Enterprise_ shuddered back to life all around him as Scotty and his crews swarmed throughout the ship, repairing the damage wrought by the Klingons.  McCoy reached up to massage his temples wearily.  It was the first moment of peace he’d had in over a day.

He didn’t notice he’d fallen asleep until knuckles rapped against the transparent bulkhead separating his office from Sickbay at large.  McCoy yawned and blearily rubbed a hand across his face.  Jim Kirk was standing in his doorway, his shock of blond hair disheveled and his uniform hanging in partial tatters.  McCoy could see plasma burns on his forearms through the holes.   Kirk had a small plastic cup in each hand, filled with a creamy white liquid.  He grinned and passed one to McCoy.  McCoy raised an eyebrow, though he accepted the cup.

“Eggnog,” Kirk said, as if that explained everything.  He glanced out into the ward.  “How are they?”

McCoy followed his gaze and looked out over Sickbay.  He couldn’t help smiling a little, just a little.  Though every biobed was full and he and his staff were stretched to the absolute limit, nobody would die today.  They had been lucky.

“Alive,” he said aloud.

Kirk grinned.  He touched his cup to McCoy’s and they both drank deeply.   The eggnog was laced with Scotty’s engine room hooch, if McCoy wasn’t mistaken.  Kirk clapped him fondly on the shoulder.  “Merry Christmas, Bones.”


End file.
